| I said to myself: stop writing,
|
| But the hands themselves are asking.
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| Oh, my dear mother, my beloved friends!
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| I'm lying in the ward - they look askance,
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| I don’t sleep: I’m afraid they will pounce,
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| After all, nearby are psychos quiet, incurable
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| There are different types of psychics
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| Not violent, but dirty
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| They are treated, starved, their orderlies beat
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| And here's what's amazing:
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| Everyone walks without restraints
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| And what is brought to me, all these psychos eat
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| Where is Dostoevsky
|
| With "Notes" known,
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| I would have seen, dead man, how foreheads are beaten against the door!
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| And tell Gogol
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| About our miserable life
|
| By God, this Gogol would not have believed us
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| This is flour, spit on them!
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| After all, they are, bitch, violent:
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| Everyone strives to lick me, by God, I have no strength!
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| Yesterday in ward number seven
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| One went crazy for good -
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| Shouted: "Give America!" |
| and beat the orderlies
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| I don't want fame and
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| As long as I'm in good health
|
| Reason has not faded yet, and it's ahead,
|
| Here is the head physician - a woman
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| Let it be quiet, but crazy
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| I say: "I'm going crazy!" |
| - she told me: "Wait!"
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| I'm waiting, but I feel - already
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| Walking on the edge of a knife
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| I forgot the alphabet, I remembered only two cases ...
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| And I ask my friends
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| So that no matter who I am,
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| Take him, him, me out of here! |